


Fictober 2019

by aureliu_s



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: 31 days of writing, Angst, Bad Writing, Caring Sebastian, Dragonborn DLC, F/M, Fictober, Fictober 2019, Fluff, Maybe Smut We'll See, Minor Blackwall/Josephine Montilyet, Multi, Other, Sebastian Vael in the Chantry, miraak isn't as big as an asshole as he could be award, not sure which fandoms i'll be writing in this time around, october prompts, probably mostly skyrim & da, prompts, writetober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-01
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-09 08:07:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 15,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20850203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aureliu_s/pseuds/aureliu_s
Summary: This year's collection of 31 fictober prompts, created by me & my homie TheWolfWhoWaited. Check out my tumblr (virtu-s) for all the prompts!





	1. Fictober 2019 Prompts!

Here's the fictober prompt list i'm using if anyone's interested!!


	2. Fear (Skyrim)

Miraak was not unused to fear.

He knew that’s what it was, the pumping in his veins every time Hermaeus Mora’s many-eyed gaze turned on him, every time those slick tendrils grabbed him, every time that drawl reached his ears. His own voice sounded so powerless against Mora, even with its booming echo, Mora’s vocals bounced around every unseeable corner of Apocrypha and back to his head like an onslaught of anvils.

He was not unused to fear, but he refused to admit that was what he felt. He was a prideful creature, as he believed most were. Prideful creatures did not admit their weaknesses nor their frights. They did not give the honor of a name to things that terrified them. They did not give the honor of victory to the enemy.

“Reward? We both know this isn’t a reward.”

Through the slits of his mask, over the sound of his stunted breath, he could see her. The Last Dragonborn was a prideful creature too, although she was the kind who tried to intimidate others into believing so. With those lines across her face and her squared shoulders, she most likely succeeded the majority of the time. _Run, you fool. _He shouted at her in his head. _Run and never look back. _He had no idea why she would bother, why she would be so incredibly stupid enough to think she could take on Hermaeus Mora alone. With nothing but her staff and that toothpick of a sword. _Forget me. Forget this little charade. Forget the First Dragonborn, like you all have already._

“I’m not scared of you, Hermaeus Mora.” She said firmly, drawing closer as Miraak gurgled and sputtered pathetically. He swore their eyes met through the slits of his mask. “We aren’t scared of you.”

The thick feeling in his chest seemed to be pulling inwards on his ribs, yanking his muscles and veins in, until the rest of his body was numb and limp. Gods, he was going to die. He was going to die, and he was so, so afraid.

The Last Dragonborn’s face was the first he saw once Mora pushed his mask off. And she saw him, blood and black tar—which, gods, he hoped that wasn’t what his blood looked like after so long in Apocrypha—matting his hair, his skin torn by a scaly monstrosity, whimpering and wheezing like an abused puppy. _Forget me. Forget me. Run. _He pushed weakly at the tentacle wriggling through his torso.

She fixed him with that icy pale gaze, yet so warm somehow, so kind, so sympathetic. So lovely.

_No_, she told him, _I want to remember._


	3. Nightmare (Dragon Age)

_He remembered the explosion._

_He wished he didn’t, but he could vividly recall the feeling of being so close to its epicenter. The deafening shockwave, then the explosion itself ripped through the Kirkwall Chantry. It sent him flying and it sent a piece of Andraste’s hand into his head, blinding him in one eye and opening the door for fresh, gushing blood to mat his face. He was tossed through the cold night air, struggling for purchase, but finding none. He was a piece of the Chantry, cracked, broken, flung away like mud. He fell for what fell like hours, and when he hit the ground he heard his ribs crack in their demise. A wooden slab landed atop him and then a concrete one weighed on his left arm._

_There, bloody, weak, beaten, Sebastian Vael had earned his rite of death._

With a gasp the Prince sat up, curling and uncurling his hands into the comforter. No, Maker, no. He was alive. He was safe. Wasn’t he? Gently he touched the extraordinarily faint scar beside his left eye. Wasn’t he?

He clambered out of bed and revived the fire, staggering clumsily—every part of him was shaking, trembling, like the jelly his aunt used to make come springtime—and threw one of the huge windows in his chamber open. A gust of cold, bitter Starkhaven air racked him with chills and almost made his head hurt.

He was alive, but the Chantry in Kirkwall could not say the same. The initiates, the lay brothers and sisters, the poor who had been praying and the Templars who had been sharing their last meal together. They could not say the same. Elthina could not say the same.

A harsh knock at his door made him jump, and after swallowing the shaking in his voice he bid the knocker come in. It was Flora and Corbinian, looking as if they’d just seen a ghost. Flora held a letter. Corbinian wrung his hands. Sebastian shut the window.

“What is it?” He asked them when they didn’t say anything. “A letter? Is it from Azriel?” Momentary hope filled his heart. It had been long enough since she had left, he felt, that she would send a letter. She must’ve made it to Ferelden by now.

“No,” Flora shook her head, visibly battling away tears. Corbinian gently patted her back and took the piece of paper from her, striding across the room as if he was in a funeral procession to hand it to Sebastian.

“The Conclave,” his cousin said morosely, “there’s…there’s been an explosion.”


	4. Loss (Skyrim)

Althëa didn’t know how long the onslaught lasted. She didn’t know how long the dragons spit fire at them or closed scrambling townspeople in their jaws. She didn’t know how long it took for the screams of the innocent and dying to fall silent. But once they did, there was not much of her village left.

She was amazed her hut was still partially standing when she exited the cellar, her baby whining and crying pathetically into her bosom. The moment he saw their house, though, the moment the smoke touched his nose and the low-burning fire met his eyes, he quieted. The way the orange reflected in his inquisitive golden eyes unsettled Althëa greatly. It made him look like a demon, like an evil man. And he was barely two.

She passed through the doorway. The door itself had been knocked away, by what she didn’t want to speculate.

“Shut your eyes, _dii shulviin_. Shut them, Miraak.” When he didn’t comply she put a hand over his face, to which he responded with an irritated noise. No matter. No child should see the destruction, the death…the bodies of people he once knew. And the look of wonder on his face was not one she found comfort in. Althëa almost wished he would cry again.

Blood soaked the dirt, staining it a grotesque mahogany. Body parts she did not even recognize were strewn across the little grassy common in the center of the village. Charred and blackened corpses had been melted together by dragonfire—the stench was overwhelming and foul. The shaman’s hut had been reduced to ash. And, in the center of it all, a felled dragon croaked weakly for life.

He was a cool grey color, scales glinting in the moonlight. His eyes were sharp but glazed over—he was dying. Althëa didn’t know how, but her townspeople had managed to fell a dragon and slay it. Hope filled her chest. If they could kill the dragons…

She nearly screamed when Miraak shifted in her grip and reached his arms outwards towards the beast. Immediately she yanked him back, nearly falling over herself in the process.

“No, my boy. No, no. We will leave the dragon be,” she chided, voice shaking as the giant beast stirred. “Leave him be.” One hard green eye flicked towards them, and Althëa allowed herself a little gasp, clutching her child tighter than she ever had before.

_“Hi fen qiilan,” _the dragon rumbled, shifting his massive head to get a better look at them.

And then, from beside her head, her son spit out his first word:

_“Niid.”_

Althëa stared at him in pure horror and disbelief, her eyes wide and jaw slack. The dragon groaned something back in his language before letting out one final, deep sigh, stirring the dirt beside his nostrils. And then he fell still.

“What did you say, _dii shulviin_?” Althëa didn’t want to ask. She didn’t want to know. Everything was wrong. Her village was gone, her friends dead, and her son…her son was conversing with dragons.

But Miraak only smiled at her, put his little arms around her neck, and cooed:

“Móna.” She tried to quell the shaking in her hands as she held him, the steadiness of his heart and his breath irking her even further. Did he not know what was going on? Just ten minutes ago he’d been wailing like a nightmare, soaking her shirt with tears. Now, here…he was at peace. He was calm. Serene, even.

When Althëa opened her eyes again, the first thing she saw from the mess of her son’s curls was a tall and imposing figure in flowing robes covered in soot and ash. But before that, there was a pure, blue and orange glow coming off the dead dragon, wisps of beautiful magic dancing through the air before shooting like ethereal arrows into the child in her arms.

Miraak looked equally as interested in what was going on, but there was no fear in his eyes. He was not scared of this magic, this power. He let it envelop him and when the light faded a tremendous, deafening crack split the sky. All of Nirn seemed to tremble, and the heavens seemed to explode with a fiery orange light. It looked…it looked like dragonfire. They were going to burn, to roast alive—and suddenly, a great booming voice that made her ears bleed shouted down at them:

** _Do…vah…kiin!_ **

Althëa tumbled uselessly to the scorched ground as the voice seemingly broke the very earth she stood upon. Miraak landed with a light cry directly on her chest, scrambling to get up.

“Móna,” he whined, clutching her shirt. And, just as she reached for him, he was whisked away.

The figure in long robes had crossed the town square and now held her son in his hands, examining him with a grimace as if he were a rare specimen of animal. Althëa felt the blood drain from her face—this man was a Dragon Priest. Only Priests could afford the luxury of such cloths, such colors. Only Priests could be found on the site of a dragon raid. Only Priests wore that dragon-headed signet ring. Only Priests wore the mask.

“Yokudan,” she heard the man mutter, “short. You are a runt, boy.”

Althëa scrambled to her knees, placing both hands against the ground and her forehead atop them.

“You there,” The Priest spoke as if he was only now noticing her, “this runt is yours?”

_“Geh, thuri.”_

“Do not speak the language of your superiors as if you know it, woman.” The man snapped, kicking ash against her bowed head. “This child is yours no longer. Forget him, forget what you have seen her.”

Althëa’s heart hammered in her chest.

“My lord-“

“Are you hard of hearing, peasant?” The man touched the metal toe of his boot beneath her chin and wrenched her head up, eliciting a cry that made him grin wickedly. “This boy is no longer yours. Forget what you have seen. Forget him. You should be grateful I do not kill you for such insolence.”

Swallowing the growing lump in her throat, Althëa took one last look at her son, who was playing aimlessly with the Priest’s necklace. Those molten gold eyes turned on her one final time. Miraak smiled and then put his head on the man’s shoulder.

“Y-yes, my lord.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dii shulviin - my sunshine  
hi fen qiilaan - you will submit  
geh, thuri - yes, lord/overlord/master  
Móna - lower atmoran for "mother"  
althea is miraak's mommy!! :)


	5. Vampire (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> trigger warning for blood, mentions of death/killing

He could just barely feel Tharya’s shallow breaths against his shoulder, the way her whole body seemed to slump when she exhaled. How limp, how powerless she was. She had no strength left.

And gods, he was running out of ideas.

They’d already tried to escape twice—and they’d gotten far. The Volkihar Clan was little match for his Voice, but one of them had managed to sink their fangs into his neck and he hadn’t felt the same since. He was beginning to feel how Tharya looked—pale, clammy, dark circles around the eyes, exhaustion setting in. He didn’t think they were being turned into vampires. They were being drained. Like a live, walking root cellar made specially for vampires. They were being drained, and he didn’t think Tharya had another day of this living hell in her.

“Wake up, dii fil.” He said gently, nudging his chin against her forehead. If she fell asleep now, there was no way she’d ever wake up again. “Come.” He opened his arms, the shackles around his wrists that flowed with enchantment rattling loudly. She flinched away from the noise, but didn’t have the will to move far. “It is only me, my love. I will not hurt you.”

Through glazed and dull eyes she stared at him before cautiously moving into his embrace. Gods, she was too thin. She had always felt small simply because he was big, but this...this was starvation. This was dehydration. This was weeks of scraps and living in a cramped, filthy cell.

The light caught on the tooth holes littering her neck, the blackened veins stretching outward from them. Her pale skin looked sickly translucent. She put one hand on his chest and pushed herself painstakingly up to look at him.  
“Miraak-“  
“No.” He said firmly. He knew that tone of voice. He knew what would come after. “I will do no such thing.”  
“You’d rather submit me to Harkon’s wrath?”  
He felt his jaw clench.  
“I will not kill you, no matter how many times you ask.”

She fell asleep soon after that. He did too, one hand on her back so he could feel her breathing, the faint pump of her heart. He didn’t know how long they slept, but he knew it was the last conversation they would ever have, and he knew it was the last time they would ever touch, ever see each other, because when night came and full moon rose Tharya was gone, and Harkon’s imposing figure stood in the doorway. He dabbed at his bloody mouth with a handkerchief, eyes settling on Miraak.

“I think it’s time you and I become acquainted, First Dragonborn.”


	6. Afterlife (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually wrote this prompt for both Skyrim & dragon age so maybe later on i’ll come back and post the dragon age one

“Torygg! Er—my King. Your Majesty?”

To her surprise, Torygg only laughed as he turned from the path to greet her.  
“Please, Dragonborn. As you can see,” he gestured to the beautiful sprawling landscape around them, the swirling vibrant night sky above them, “I am no longer your High King.”  
“I suppose that’s true,” Tharya chortled shortly, pressing her ribs as the pain flared again, “Sovngarde sure is beautiful.”  
“It is,” Torygg gave a wistful sigh, “even more so since you have slain the World-Eater. I must extend my eternal gratitude for that, Dragonborn.” He reached for one of her hands and bowed to kiss it. “All of us are truly in your debt.”

Tharya chuckled again through the blush threatening to creep up her neck, waiting patiently for Torygg to give her hand up. He never did. Instead, he wound their arms together and draped her hand over his forearm.  
“Would you walk with me, Dragonborn?” He was already taking the first steps. “I much desire to hear of the waking world and its sacred hero. How is Elisif? And what has become Ulfric?”

  
Torygg walked slow to accompany her limping gait and nodded and hummed as she spoke. She didn’t know where they were walking, only that he seemed to know the path well and brought her deep into the endless horizon of Sovngarde before they sat to rest at an old fountain. The stone was still beautiful, and the vines sneaking around it seemed to only add to the image. At long last, Tharya fell silent, her gaze coming to rest on Torygg. He had the hint of a sun tan, with light brown hair and a short beard framing a straight nose and hazel eyes. He had to be around her age.   
“Forgive me, your Majesty.” Tharya murmured even though he hadn’t caught her looking. “I don’t think we ever met in life.”  
“No, Dragonborn,” Torygg looked at her curiously. “A shame. Though much has been spoken of you even here,” he gestured to Sovngarde, “Shor himself could not keep your name off the lips of his charges if he tried.” Torygg’s laugh was clear and strong, like a bell.

A sudden sense of anger washed over her. She had heard the many opinions of Torygg—mostly from Stormcloaks, but a few citizens and Imperial soldiers as well—but...he was not what she expected. He was undeniably kind, but from that kindness radiated a rare species of strength. He was a good man. And it was hard for good men to be kings.  
“I will get rid of Ulfric, Majesty.” She resolved firmly, earning an inquisitive eyebrow from the High King.  
“I would not ask that of you, Dragonborn.”  
“You don’t need to,” she pulled herself up on his offered arm, groaning at the stiffness and exhaustion that had taken over her body, “I put him there. I’ll take him out.”  
“I will admit, I am unsure if what to think of your grand scheme against the Stormcloaks.” Torygg chuckled. “You joined them, and plan to fight for them, and plan to make Ulfric High King. And then depose him?”  
“Ulfric is standing up to the Thalmor, even if he is racist. We need to stand up to the Thalmor, which is what the Imperials aren’t doing.” Torygg nodded slowly. “Ulfric is...a means to an end. I don’t care if it costs me my life, I won’t leave Skyrim under his control for longer than I have to.”

The High King was silent for a long time as they walked back to the Hall of Valor. By the time they reached Tsun, Tharya felt about ready to pass out, her legs shaking and head swimming. Tsun gave her a look.  
“I suppose it would be too much to hope to walk with you again, Dragonborn?” Torygg deposited her respectfully against Tsun’s waiting arm. “When will you return to Tamriel?”  
“Not for a week or so,” she said before the huge guardian at her side could open his mouth, “my wounds are almost healed, but they could use a few more days of rest.”

A warm smile crossed Torygg’s features, and once again he bowed at the waist to her.  
“Then I look forward to our next venture, Dragonborn. Until then.”


	7. Scorched (Dragon Age)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wrote this kind of on the runner today so sorry if it feels rushed! (it was)
> 
> (mo grádh - my love or smth like it in Gaelic i believe)

“Maker’s balls, run for it!”

Sebastian wasn’t sure who the cry came from but he was damn sure his arrows weren’t doing a thing against the massive dragon beating down on them. Andraste’s flaming pyre, these were dawnstone tipped arrows from the best fletcher in all of the Free Marches, and the Starkhaven Bow was legendary for its draw.

Why were they losing?

He sent another arrow into the sky, but the dragon was positioning itself just beside the sun. Clever bastard. The arrow whistled through the air and...sang four feet clear of its scaled target.  
“Move, move, Choir Boy! We’re leaving!” Varric plowed into his legs and sent them both tumbling into the shallow water in a mess of bowstrings and quivers. Heavy footsteps splashed over to them, and a pair of rough hands was pulling Sebastian to his feet before he could even begin to register that he’d fallen.  
“Let’s go, Prince!” He recognized Blackwell’s voice.  
“No—no! Where’s Azriel?” Sebastian shook the Grey Warden away and snatched his bow from the water, grabbing a handful of arrows.

His fiancée wasn’t hard to spot. With her greatsword swinging, she deftly ducked beneath the dragon’s tail as it approached, and sliced a grinning cut into one of its back legs. The action sent her slipping and tumbling to the ground, just enough time for the dragon to whip around and snap its jaw at her.  
“Azriel!” Sebastian shoved as many arrows as he could between his teeth and began loosing them, one after another. He waited as the dragon stilled itself and inhaled slowly, a fiery glow peeking from between its outer scales. The Prince kept himself still, waiting, waiting...

The arrow left his hand a second too late. He was certain it pierced the beast’s eye, but the spout of flames had already been conjured and was already leaving its maw. All it had to do was aim, and with Azriel in such close proximity...

But no, the dragon turned to face him and let the fire come. Vaguely Sebastian heard the Inquisitor call his name, saw her burst through the wall of flames and slam into him before the worst of the fire could reach his skin. The heat was unbearable, oppressive, scorching. He hid as much of himself from it as he could, and pressed Azriel’s head to his shoulder. Gods, if she was willing to save him from this...what good was he?

The attack was short but felt like it lasted forever, and with a satisfied huff the winged beast took to the skies again and shrieked before flying over the trees. Sebastian didn’t care. He felt Azriel roll off him like a forgotten rag doll.  
“Mo grádh,” he cupped the sides of her face, swiping at the soot that dirtied her tan features. “Give me a potion!”  
Dorian was at her side in a second, gently coaxing their last potion to her dry lips, the wisps of a healing spell circling his Tevinter fingers and dancing to a quickly fading Trevelyan.

“Mo grádh,” Sebastian said softly, holding her close to his chest. “Come on, Azriel. You’re alright.” Dorian kept his magic up. Sebastian stroked his thumb across her cheek, feeling the heat from the dragonfire beginning to disappear, replaced with an icy coolness. With a wild look in his eye, Sebastian stared at Dorian.  
“Phew,” the mage sat back on his haunches after a second, “that was a bit too close for comfort, if I might say.”

Lavender eyes flickered open with a grating groan. Azriel hissed in pain as she shifted in Sebastian’s arms, her burnt skin ultra sensitive to any touch. Weakly she curled one hand into his fur collar.  
“That was the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Trevelyan.” The Prince chuckled feebly, turning his head to kiss her fingers.

Slowly, Azriel smiled up at him.  
“Worth it.”


	8. Moon (LotR)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> didn’t have tons of time today but one of my friends asked me to write smth for Éomer & Éolith since i haven’t in forever. writing them gives me secondhand cringe but i love it

“Éolith?”

Éomer was surprised to find the room so dark at this hour of the morning. The curtains were drawn, every candle extinguished. Even the fireplace burned low, allowing a brittle chill to settle throughout the chamber. Just outside he knew Rohan was wide awake, its people off to their daily routine, its marketplace milling with early commerce. So close to winter, only a fool would let their fire die overnight.

A figure sitting up from the bed startled him, and vaguely he saw someone rise from the pillow and then lower back onto it.  
“Éolith?” He repeated, taking a few cautious steps into her chambers. The Marshal eyed the fire before moving to shove the last of the logs onto it, poking and prodding the coals back to life. “It’s nearly noon.”  
“Forgive me, my Marshal.” Her voice sounded dry, strained, restless. “I feel a bit...” she trailed off, which was most unlike her. Éolith Wolfheart did not leave sentences unfinished, nor thoughts uncompleted.

Warily the Marshal approached the bed. He’d never found reason to intrude upon her private space before. He’d only ever seen her in armor, but here was a woman he barely recognized, clammy, breathing slowly, a thin nightgown tangled around her body. Éomer felt a raging heat claim his cheeks as he reached out and flattened his cool palm to her forehead. He barely felt their skins meet before she flinched away, curling the blankets tighter around herself.  
“Should I call the physician?” He tried to keep the worry from his voice but it was of no use.  
“No, no, my Marshal.” She chuckled feebly. “I am of the mind it will pass with some rest.”

A damp silence passed. Her forest eyes fell open again, almost surprised to find him still standing there.  
“Do you not have patrols, Marshal?”  
“I would rather know what is ailing you, first.” He blurted out, shifting his weight. _I’m concerned for you_. “You’re very warm.”  
“My family has been...afflicted with a...condition that does not respond kindly to full moons,” she explained delicately, as if she was treading around broken glass. “Last night being one, I am simply feeling its affects, that is all.”  
“Oh.”

Éomer glanced around the room again, as if hoping something new would magically appear to distract him. Nothing did. She lived plainly and simply, with only a few trinkets of interest and sprigs of wilting flowers smattering the landscape of her chamber.  
“I could stay, if you would like.” He said, and then immediately snapped to attention. What? Why had he said that? What had he been thinking? Stay? Here? With her? “To...” He clambered to get out of the hole he’d dug himself into, “to keep you company.”

Éolith peered at him over the hem of her blankets, and a slight smile graced her pale features. The Marshal felt his legs go to jelly as she moved and then patted the open space beside her.  
“If you like, my Marshal.” She raised a scrutinizing eyebrow. “You have no duties?”

Éomer heaved a sigh. No. He’d gotten himself into this—he may as well try to enjoy it.  
“I’m sure I’ll hear the commotion if they need me.”


	9. Wounded (Dragon Age)

“Sit still,  mo _grádh_.  This will only take a minute.” 

Sebastian looked up at her but Azriel was peering down at the meticulous work of his hands, threading the needle with black thread, peeling back the bandage at the top of her ribcage. She flattened one hand to her breast and pulled the skin taut so the wound gaped evilly at him, making the Prince grimace. 

“If you sewed my boob to my side I’d kill you,” she tried to laugh. Sebastian kissed her shoulder. There was a handful of clean towelettes he had taken from the requisition officer, and now he used them to wipe away the blood that had begun to surface and drip from the nasty gash. 

“You really need to stay away from the corpses, sweetheart.” He murmured. “Let us deal with them.” 

“Why?” She raised a dark eyebrow. 

“They frighten you,” he glanced at her, “you don’t think clearly when you fight them. This one could’ve cut your arm off,” he took the cloth away and not long after the needle pierced her skin. The Inquisitor cried out but muffled it into the back of her hand. “Shh, shh. We’re almost done.” 

“You just started.” 

The stitches were slow work. Azriel squirmed and writhed and it made him stop multiple times to soothe her back into a still state; she wasn’t usually so squeamish when it came to wounds and stitches. But she was exhausted, he could tell. Her nerves frayed from a day of fighting the undead who scared her so much, the corpses with moldy flesh and gaping sockets. She had every right to be squeamish. 

He flattened his palm to her chest himself and allowed her to grab his shoulder, his upper arm, no matter how hard she squeezed, no matter how white her knuckles went. It was better than screaming to wake the whole camp. He cleaned the wound after the stitches were complete and placed another bandage over it, washing his hands and then gathering the Inquisitor in his arms. 

“There you go,” he rubbed a hand over her bare back, kissing her hair, “you’re alright, love. I know it hurts.” Deft archer’s fingers went about undoing her hair, letting it tumble down to full length, sliding his hands through it and rubbing her scalp. “Try to get some rest,  _ mo grádh _ .” Azriel tucked herself against his chest and exhaled slowly. 

“Thank you,” she whispered. 

“You are always welcome, sweetheart.”


	10. Shipwrecked (Skyrim)

_“Come closer, Dragonborn.”_

_The voice swallowed the wind, drowned it out. A deep, rich and accented baritone that billowed in the sails and rocked the entire ship dangerously. It stirred the thunder and aggravated the lightning; it sent the rain whipping at her face like thousands of little blades._

_“Come closer. You are almost here. You are almost mine.”_

_She felt blood rise from her cheeks, her neck, her forehead. Her eyes burned. This rain was cutting her. Wounding her. The ship was tossed and with a cry Tharya covered her face from the vicious weather, latching onto whatever she could to stay upright. Why did it hurt? Whose voice was this, that echoed in her very bones, that touched her very soul?_

_There seemed to be no one else on the deck but her. No one else on the ship. It was just her and the storm, ravaging the choppy seas, throwing her to and fro like a rag doll. Water splashed over the sides. Lightning split the sky and blinded her each time it came down. Thunder roared from the clouds and deafened her each time it made itself known._

_“Mine, Dragonborn.” The voice said, and she couldn’t tell if it was sincere or mocking or gentle or condescending. “You are mine.”_

_An explosion of white light sent dots into her vision, and suddenly the ship vanished. The wood beneath her boots slipped away, the water evaporated, the wind died. And she was falling. Falling, falling, falling. Falling for eternity into the whiteness, until with a grunt her body landed forcefully against an ashy beach._

_Her eyes couldn’t open. Tharya struggled for breath, clutching at her chest, gasping in fresh, salty air. A whining noise left her mouth before she could stop it. She hurt all over. From what?  
“Hush now, Dragonborn.” The voice made her jump but a gentle, calloused hand with cool fingers settled against her cheek, her skin screaming in agony. The familiar warmth of a healing spell made her inhale, but the magic drifted oh so lightly over her face, healing the millions of tiny little scrapes. The spell dissipated and she let out a contented sigh before she could stop it. “There.” The hand came to settle on her jaw, index finger gently tracing her lips. “Is that not better?”_

_“Th-Thank you.” She was well aware of the stutter to her words, the chattering of her teeth as she tried to speak. Why was she so cold? Gods, it was freezing here. “Who are you?”_  
_ The voice hummed. She found herself unable to open her eyes._  
_ “We will meet soon, mal gein.” The hand trailed away and down her neck. It was large enough to lock around the base, thumb rubbing appreciatively against the column of her throat. The action was...unsettling, to say the least, but the hand wasn’t choking her. Its weight, though, was ever-noticeable. “Sooner than I think you expect.”_  
_ “Who are you?” She reached up to latch her hands around the wrist.  
“You will know me soon,” the hand slid over her collarbones before whisking itself away, and this time knuckles stroked lovingly against her cheekbone. “And I will know you. Much deeper than you ever believed possible.”_

_There was a tense kind of comfort in the hand’s movement, an odd sense of hostility in the errant finger that traced her warpaint or the thumb that touched her chin. _  
_ “What do you mean?”  
“We are one, you and I.” Another hand reached for hers, prying it off the ash and placing it against fabric. A shift. No, not fabric—skin. The hand at her face settled in the center of her chest. Strangely enough, it didn’t seem to touch her robes at all, instead coming into direct contact with the valley between her breasts. “Merged. Entangled. One power. One mind.” The voice drifted closer, hot breath licking her ear. “One body.” Now, so close she could feel a ghostly pair of lips against her hair: “One soul.”_

With a start Tharya shot up from her cot, looking wildly around the room as those words echoed in her head. A dream. It had all been...a dream? She felt her face—her skin was whole, smooth, sweaty from her odd encounter. She felt the sheets below her. Sheets, not ash. And her eyes...she could open them.

But there was a warm spot in the center of her chest, tingling of a heat that was not her own. A heat that belonged to a different body. A different soul. As if someone had pressed close to her in the dark.

_We will meet soon, sweet thing._ A thickly accented voice swept into her head as surely as if someone behind her had wrapped their arms around her, pulled her back down to her cot. _We will know each other then._ The voice was low, soothing, enveloping her in a tender warmth that she almost felt was unsafe to succumb to. A phantom hand stroked down her cheek, fingers trailing down her throat, before the weight of an unseen hand came to rest in the center of her chest.

_Then, you will be mine, Dragonborn._


	11. Snowstorm (Dragon Age)

He was used to the cold, to some extent. Winters in Starkhaven were punishing, summers mild and short. Varric was sticking close behind him—he could hear the dwarf’s grunt of displeasure every once a while. He was using the Prince’s tracks to break through the knee-deep snow that was just about chest-deep on him. Blackwall was wandering dangerously at the edge of the group, sometimes lost in the blinding white of the blizzard, sometimes a dim silhouette when the wind eased up. Dorian was limping through just behind Varric.

Sebastian was used to the cold, but not this cold.

Ahead of him, Azriel moved in and out of visibility as well. That worried him the most—not only was she their Inquisitor, their leader, she was his wife, his lover, and he knew her tolerance for cold was limited to the damp and mediocre winters of coastal Ostwick. He wished he had something of hers to grab. Her cloak, her grappling chain, her hand. To keep her close. To share even an ounce the warmth that was quickly escaping his body.  
“Slow down, Choir Boy!” Varric has to scream to be heard above the wind. They had all given up trying to talk to one another long ago. “Sparkler got stuck!”  
Sebastian knew if he stopped he’d lose Azriel. And, maybe, his toes.  
“Blackwall!” The Prince cupped his frozen hands around his mouth to call for the Grey Warden, who vanished out of view. “_Blackwall_!” He screamed, throat raw. Slowly but surely the Warden dipped back into visibility, moving towards them. “Stay with Varric!” Sebastian grabbed the man by the shoulders, but he gave a confused look. Leaning against his ear, the Prince shouted: “_Stay with Varric!_ I’m going to get Azriel!”

Whatever Blackwall had heard had made him understand, so he clapped Sebastian on the back and planted himself in front of Varric as the Prince trudged away. He didn’t know his teeth had been chattering until now.  
“**Azriel!**” He cried into the wind, one hand latched around his hood to keep it up. “**Azriel, wait! Where are you?**” He didn’t have to move far, only forward, until he smacked into something tall and rigid.

Immediately he strapped his arms around the Inquisitor, pulling the edges of his cloak around her to bind both of them together.  
“I’m here, mo grádh,” he said into her ear as she furrowed into his chest. The base of his neck became hot with her breath and her proximity. In an entanglement of limbs and cloak they huddled as close together as possible. Sebastian ducked his head into her neck and she did the same, sharing in the warmth from his fur-lined hood. “We’re going in circles.” He groaned.  
“How can you tell? We can’t see a damn thing.”   
“I never doubt your steel sense of direction, my love, but-“  
“We’re going the right way.” Azriel assured him, kissing his cheek. She pressed her cold nose into the soft underside of his jaw.

Sebastian was silent for a long time. Azriel was too. They listened to each other’s shaky breathing, chattering teeth. They tried to muffle the shudders that racked each of their bodies by pressing closer, huddling closer, so close she felt her ribcage would snap. But it was worth it for the shred of warmth they created together, the inkling of heat they raised.  
Finally, Sebastian put his head down to press his cold dry lips against hers for a long time, warming their mouths before the blizzard reclaimed them as he pulled away.  
“I trust you, then,” he murmured, and she almost didn’t hear it, “lead us home.”


	12. A Quiet Night (Skyrim)

"You are so beautiful," the Dragon Priest murmured, dragging his fingertips slowly up the curve of her side. "You are..." he paused, coiling a strand of golden hair around his dark finger. "Divine." She sighed into his arm tucked beneath her head, giving his elbow a tired kiss.

"Go to sleep, poet."

"I'd much rather look at you, my love."

She sighed and he watched her ribs press against her pale skin, watched the way his hand slid smoothly down the landscape of her body.

"I love when you call me that," she admitted just above a whisper. He felt himself smile. Leaning forward to press a kiss to her shoulder, he murmured:

"I know."

He watched her slowly submit to an all-encompassing slumber, bordered by the bed on one side and carressed by his presence, his hands, his warmth, his trailing lips on the other. No fiery passion, no marks that would last til morning. Only the tender movement of memorizing her body, her scars, her flesh. Knowing the places she fit perfectly into him. Knowing the love he had not known before; the love he so often reminded himself he was not deserving of.

He put one hand on her arm, her cool skin warming at his touch, creating an aimless pattern of kisses, each featherlight, each benevolent and revering against her shoulder, her neck. Her fingers slid into his hair and she twisted to meet his lips, pressing herself back into the arms that moved to envelop her. He pressed his tongue into her mouth and she let him, tiredly giving way to the gentle, capitalizing statement of his worship, the completion of his soft sacrament.

"I love you," he told her.

"Go to sleep," she said.


	13. Alone (Dragon Age)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just so y'all know azriel isn't actually dead but sebastian thinks she is bc the inquisition isnt big yet & all he knows is that the conclave went boom

Sebastian hadn't expected to let her go so soon. She left his fiance and was to be his wife, to return to him so that they could rule together. That they could unify the Free Marches by binding its two most powerful cities and respected families. But no. She had gone to the Conclave in the hopes of ending her pointless war. She despised the conflict and he knew it held priority over most anything else; making Thedas once again peaceful was always her dream. Defending the oppressed, helping the less fortunate, a true champion of the people. It all held precedent; even sometimes over him, but he could not blame her for that. 

He could not blame her for going to the Conclave, and he could not blame her for not knowing she would never return. 

The Prince stared at the public notice lying on his desk across the room. A peddlar had brought it all the way from Kirkwall, just for him to see. Of course Kirkwall had gotten the news first; they were closest to Ferelden and Orlais. But word traveled fast around the Free Marches, like a wildfire, or gossip in a dormitory at the Circle. Once news of the Conclave explosion reached Starkhaven, it would be projected hundreds of miles to every city, every village, every ear. Once news of the prince in mourning reached Ostwick, the Trevelyans would be making arrangements for her body. 

He looked down at the velvet dress in his hands. So soft, so smooth. [A deep, regal blue lined with tiny silver embellishments.](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/1d/e2/a3/1de2a351865b1f5821c9ff9601f929af.jpg) Blue and silver--the colors of her house. It had sat low around her shoulders and accentuated the curve of her breasts just enough to make the old women in high necks and long sleeves grumble to each other. It exposed enough of her beautifully tan skin, her strong shoulders and arms to make the Lord Chancellor Joffrey Orrick of Tantervale look away from his twig of a young wife. Azriel did not dress to earn attention, though. She dressed to express herself. She dressed the way she wanted to. And Sebastian had never once thought she didn't look good; even in a plain shirt and underwear; even in high necks and long sleeves; even in nothing. She had worn this to his coronation, sticking out like a scandalously beautiful blue rose. He remembered the brilliantly dark eyeshadow framing her lavender gaze. He remembered the[ glittering jewel necklace](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/3b/43/cf/3b43cf7bb89ec98e04ce211256bc9224.jpg) she wore. He remembered thinking the ensemble surprisingly tame. 

And now, in his hands, was the dress she would never wear again. The dress he would never see her in again. The dress he would never again be granted the pleasure of slowly removing, nor helping her into. Azriel was gone, but the fabric still held her vibrance. Her ambition. Her beauty. 

Azriel was gone, and he was alone.


	14. Fight (Dragon Age)

“I wish you had told me.”  
“Told you?”  
“That you were going to propose! Then I wouldn’t have said that I’m going to the Conclave in front of everyone.”  
“It was supposed to be a surprise,” Sebastian felt his brow knit together, “You don’t have to go, you know.”  
“Don’t have to go!” She laughed bitterly, looking down at the near-empty glass in her hand. “I’m committed to what Justinia is working for, Sebastian, I can’t just not go.”  
“Are you not just as committed to our engagement then?”  
“I have priorities that have been in line long before we were ever engaged. That only happened three hours ago.”  
“So,” the Prince squinted, “because I didn’t put it on your agenda, it doesn’t matter.”

Azriel sighed in frustration and sunk onto the sofa across from his desk. Manicured nails tugged sluggishly at the jeweled pins keeping her hair in place and it tumbled down like a smooth brown waterfall. She was a beautiful sight in the moonlight, illuminating her tan skin and the deep bluish-green of her dress.  
“I’m sorry, my darling.” Sebastian murmured finally, crossing the room and sliding his fingers into her hair to massage her scalp. “I know that’s not what you meant.” She let her cheek fall against the stomach of his silver doublet.  
“We fight too little,” Azriel snorted quietly, “look at us. We can barely stay angry.”  
“I’d consider that a good thing.” He sat behind her, his hands drifting to her exposed shoulders to rub them.

“I’m going to go to the Conclave.” She sighed. “I’m sorry—it’s not that you aren’t important to me. You are. But I—I just didn’t know...but I made up my mind a long time ago, I have to go to the Conclave.”  
Sebastian felt a bitter taste rise in his mouth. He loved her, he loved her devotion to the world. Why was he so angry? So disinterested in what she had to say in her defense?   
“I understand,” the tightness in his voice betrayed him and he watched his brown fingers dig pressurized circles into her taut shoulders. “It upsets me.” He admitted under his breath.  
“I know, handsome, I’m sorry.” Azriel reached back to take one of his hands, kissing his scarred archer’s fingers. “What can I do to make it better?”  
“Do you truly want to marry me?”

She leaned back into his chest, touching his jaw, gazing up at him with those swirling lavender colored eyes.  
“Of course, Sebastian. It’s just inopportune timing. We’ll work it out, we always do.”  
“Inopportune.” He echoed. That’s what his proposal was. Inopportune. Not joyful, not surprising, not an act of love. Inopportune. A nuisance. A hindrance. She kissed the corner of his tightly pressed mouth and slung her tired arms around his neck.  
“I love you,” Azriel rubbed a hand over his back, “and I promise once the Conclave is done I’ll come right back and we’ll have the best wedding Starkhaven’s ever seen.”  
“I don’t care about that,” he scoffed, securing his arms tightly around her. If he let go, who knew where she might disappear to. “I care that you come back alive and safe.”  
“It’s the Conclave, Seb.” Maker, how he hated that nickname.

“Nothing bad can happen at the Conclave.”


	15. Scars (Skyrim)

“Please.” He stiffened the moment he felt her warm hands rest on his spine. She’d never heard him so immediately plead for something. Please was never the first word off his lips—nor was it ever on his lips to begin with. “Don’t, _ahtlahzey_.”

Gingerly she took her fingers away from the bumpy pink scar that paralleled his spine, forming her palms to his strong sides before sliding her arms around him. He paused, one boot halfway off his foot, rigid in her grip. His breath was tight, tense. Like he was holding something in. She wished to the Divines he would relax, but he felt like a wooden board, or a taut bowstring.  
“I would prefer if you did not touch them,” he said, but his voice sounded strained. She tried to position her hands around the claw marks across his chest but it was difficult. With a frown she gave up and let him go back to prying his boots off.  
“They’re nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a part of telling who you are,” she looked over the ones that scattered his back with her eyes. “What you’ve been through.”

“No,” he said lowly, whisking his footwear to the side with his ankle, placing both hands beside him on the edge of bed and letting out a caged sigh. “They are ever-present reminders of my mistakes and failures.” She watched his head rise. “A testament to the man I once was...who I believed myself to be.” His dark fingers tightened on the sheets before he forced them to let go. “An arrogant fool trying to prove himself superior. Who only succeeded in displaying his failure for all to see,” Miraak closed his eyes, though she couldn’t see. Tharya watched the muscles in his shoulders bunch up. “And who was forgotten by the world because of it.”

The Last Dragonborn watched the First turn his head just enough he could see her legs out of the corner of his peripheral vision.  
“You are the only one who does not see them for what they are, _ahtlahzey_.” He said quietly. “You think them things of personality, of character.” He snorted bitterly. “Of beauty, even.” Slowly the Priest shook his head. “But they are not,” he whispered, “they are everything but.”

She let her hands fall into her lap and leaned forward, pressing her forehead between his shoulder blades. The faint, slow pounding of his heart sounded almost mournful. Spiteful. Tharya frowned to herself, fingers curling together.  
“I think they’re part of you,” she murmured, “and judging by how little you love yourself I’m not surprised you hate your scars.” He snorted icily, a quick retort waiting on his lips. “But I hope you’re alright if I love you, and if I love them.” She sat up to kiss the back of his neck, putting her chin on his shoulder. “Because I do.”

She closed her eyes. He touched her chin between two fingers and kissed her cheek—some abstract form of apology and recognition to her efforts, to her words, to the undying font of affection she allowed him to wade in. He was not so buried in his miserable self-pity that he could not make room for the woman he loved.

“Then perhaps you are a fool as well,” he murmured, “but at least you are a beautiful one.”


	16. Wandering (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi, sorry everyone! i know i’m a day behind but i’ll write two prompts tomorrow to catch up :) it’s been a stressful week

Tharya wandered. At first Miraak didn’t understand it, the way she flitted and flew from place to place, the way she allowed herself to be pulled from the main goal. On their way home from Castle Volkihar they were stopped, somehow, in Morthal. It was a dreary little town, built on a damp marsh. Everything was humid and the sheets on their bed felt cold and wet; the wood felt sweaty, soft, as if it were rotting. It was not warm but going outside made him uncomfortable in his own clothes—staying inside where the air was musty and moist was not much better.

But Tharya was determined to stay, for whatever reason. So he too would stay. He found that wandering out of the drab town and onto the road above and into the forest cleared his lungs, cleared the pressure and congestion of his head. The snow was more liquid than solid, no more than cold wet sludge.

The next day they left Morthal and he was glad to breathe again. His sinuses hadn’t been treating him kindly, but they thanked him when they left. After a day or three of walking aimless, following the road, stopping at signs and winding through the land of Skyrim, most likely, maybe, probably towards Whiterun. They proceeded to wander in and out of trouble, of holds, of staying at inns or sleeping close together to fend off the winter chill that still retained control of most nights.

“You are the least punctual person I have ever met,” he told her one day while they were switching off carrying the backpack. She slung it over her shoulders with a smile.  
“Where’s the fun in being punctual, big guy?”  
“There is no fun. Only upholding of a good reputation and character.”  
“There’s always a story behind being late,” Tharya winked, “we could at least try to make it a good one.”


	17. Dreams (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so this is super short because i have had no time to write whatsoever this week...sorry!!

He didn’t know how she dealt with her dreams, her nightmares, the ones left by Vaermina—but she did. In a quiet, back burner type of way, she did. She rarely told him the happenings of these dreams but he felt her move closer in the night, he heard her mumble weak protestations to the Daedra who implanted these vile things in her mind, he saw the way she looked the morning after. Contemplative, more quiet than usual when they sat in front of the fire and had tea, a part of the fragile morning routine they’d settled into at the College.   
“Tell me, _ahtlahzey_.” He’d always insist.  
“They’re not nightmares.” She’d say.

He knew they were.


	18. Darkness (Dragon Age)

In the darkness of the Chantry, Sebastian found some shred of solace. It was silent, dim. There were no eyes on him, no Grand Clerics breathing down his neck. He found that the tension in his shoulders eased. The weight of the world seemed to drop away.

The candles were the only thing giving off light, however dim it was. They flickered gently in greeting as he knelt before them, offering himself in prayer. The candles did not judge him, or tell him what to do, or steer him on the path of strict iron-will faith, or ban him from even the smallest pleasures of the world. The candles swayed and bent and danced kindly around him, for him—the only beings who seemed concerned with his true wellbeing.

“Dear Maker,” he said quietly, clasping his hands, watching his fingers fold downwards. “If you could spare a moment for your most humble servant.” He thought for a moment. Was he truly the most humble servant? His mind wandered to the half-eaten box of chocolates hidden in his room. Azriel had brought them over the weekend. They had shared some while walking around Kirkwall, out of his Chantry robes, and she had left him with the rest. Dangerous, but he was embarrassed to admit that it was the second most exciting thing he’d experienced in this city, the first being Hawke. “Please make sure Elthina doesn’t find my chocolate.” He chuckled tiredly, muffling a yawn into his clasped hands. Another contemplative silence passed and he sighed.

“Please let Azriel visit again soon,” he whispered, staring blankly at the candles before his eyes flicked up to the statue of Andraste. “Even you were not celibate—or...alone, I suppose, is more fitting. I know that destiny demands her time but please let me see her again. You have your bride, Maker...allow me to have mine.”  
He knew the words he spoke were treasonous, rebellious, and in all affects should see him removed from the Chantry once and for all. Something about that...didn’t seem so terrible.

“Let her forgive me for leaving,” he shook his head, and his hands gave up, falling into his lap. “I should’ve never left. I don’t want her to be alone as I am. I have no right—no right to let her suffer like this.” He ran a hand through his dark auburn hair. “She loves me. She always has, and I know because I have always loved her. And she will support me, but each day she is here I see it in her eyes that she despises me for leaving. She despises it—maybe not me. Maybe she despises the Chantry.”

He reached for one of the match sticks and struck it, lighting the single darkened candle before him.  
“Dear Maker, let Azriel Trevelyan come back to me.” He breathed, watching the candle peek and prod to life.

“Let me return to her.”


	19. Training (Skyrim)

If there was one thing she’d learned of Atmoran culture from Miraak, it was that they were elegant people who enjoyed expensive and lavish things. They also drove a hard bargain, and were excellent hagglers, so all their expensive and lavish things were cheap but no lesser in quality. She guessed Atmora had been a rich country when it had been alive, and Miraak, at the top of the social chain, above even kings, would’ve lived extremely comfortably. Winterhold and her modest musings around Skyrim were a far cry from his life in rich Atmora, but at this point he seemed to compare everything to Apocrypha, not his homeland. And everything, anything was better than Apocrypha.

There was elegance in everything Atmorans did, but in him it was leveled with a Yokudan purpose and staunchness. She was beginning to gather that the Yokudans were just as fun-loving and gaudy as the Atmorans. As a product of those two races, she didn’t understand how she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen Miraak smile or laugh. But he did enjoy the nice hair products they’d gotten from Elisif, and she’d let him take her skin creams and lotions from the High Queen because gods knew she wouldn’t use them.

Watching him here, now, on the rooftop of one of the College’s towers, she was beginning to see the elegance. He covered it easily, and displayed it in small ways, but here it was plentiful and evident. Sword in one hand, barefoot on the stone, eyes closed, he moved in slow, sweeping and almost waltz-like motions, going through the steps of battle, the style of his people. There was a thin sheet of sweat beading at his hairline and temples, and she could only imagine how long he’d been at this. He looked relaxed. The muscles moved below his earthen bronze skin but they were not tense or scrunched, but rather fluid and free-moving. His dark brow was not creased, he was not scowling or frowning or staring stoically at her from a distance. He acted with a gracefulness Tharya found surprising for such a massive body, no more than a ballet dancer with a blade.

She hated to disturb him, to break the agile peace he had created around himself, the bubble of tranquility that moved with him. But he paused for a moment, sword arm outstretched, in a half-lunge, his back straighter than an arrow.  
“Nice butt.”  
The ghost of a smile touched his lips, but his eyes didn’t open.  
“_Kogaan_. Something you need, _ahtlahzey_?”  
“Not particularly. I figured I’d tell you supper is ready downstairs.”

Gradually he pulled his limbs in, drawing himself up to his full height and then bending to grab his scabbard.   
“What were you doing? Sorry for interrupting.”  
“A Yokudan alternative to meditating,” he said, walking to her.   
“Would you teach me?”  
One eyebrow went up. Suddenly his face was back to its normal contortions.  
“If you wish.”  
“I do wish.”  
“Then I would be glad to.” He eyed her. “Perhaps it would help.”  
“Alright, alright. I know I’m problematic, you don’t have to tell me.”

Miraak grinned.  
“Never, _ahtlahzey_. You are simply perfect.”  
“Yeah, right.”


	20. Death (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW!: mentions of death, abuse/sexual abuse, torture

Miraak was not a religious man. Despite being a Priest, he held no special love for the dragons. Despite being a Priest, he was not familiar with the original gods of Atmora, the gods of the rivers and the fields and the sky and the harvest. They had been buried by the Cult, shoved while still alive and breathing into early graves. His generation and the ones following had begun the forgetting of their gods, their original deities. 

Despite everything, he was not a religious man. But some nights in Apocrypha, he prayed for death. He prayed to the gods he had forgotten, the gods he had never known. First for forgiveness, for not knowing their names, for never leaving offerings at their shrines. For shunning their religion to follow a murderous cult. And then, when he could pray no more for forgiveness, he asked for escape. Something, anything. An opening. A weakness. He believed he could escape if he was only granted the chance. 

But Hermaeus Mora continued to torture him, to use him, to drive him mad and then return him to sanity. Hermaeus Mora continued to feed him knowledge through one ear while stealing the last scraps of his humanity from the other. Hermaeus Mora threatened him covertly, with veiled words of danger and promises of hurt. But he stayed. He could not escape. And since he could not escape, he wished for death. 

He wished for death when Hermaeus Mora's many eyes blinked down at him. He wished for death when the cold, slick tendrils found their way to his throat, his robes, when they slithered like dead snakes over his skin. He had been treasured, once. Powerful. Adored, admired, idolized. He had been the seat of magical might in the Cult. He had not been the plaything, the rag, the courtesan of a Daedric Prince. He had not been so low. So unloved. So broken. So he continued to wish for death, for thousands of years. 

Death finally came, he hoped, in the form of a short blonde Fourth Era Nord with beautiful, sparkling eyes and a kind smile. He felt the gaping hole in his chest become empty as Hermaeus Mora's tentacle retreated from him, and two arms much thinner than his own grabbed him. The short blonde Fourth Era Nord with pretty eyes held him tightly to her bosom and for a moment he reveled at how Death could be so tantalizingly beddable, so alluring, so beautiful. All he could hear was the shallow sound of his breathing against her grey cloak. Miraak closed his eyes and slowly put his numb arms around her. 

Death had finally come. Or so he hoped.


	21. Stars (Skyrim)

The stars were endless in the Artaeum night sky when they first arrived. He had lain in the field with Tharya asleep on his shoulder the first night back in the world of the living. They were so beautiful. Countless. Winking down at him, reassuring him. He had always loved the stars, quietly and from afar. They were constant and unchaining, but there was a certain alluring quality to their lack of variety across the ages. He gazed up at them with appreciation and admiration and no small measure of thanks.

He had become First Mage in light not only of his inherent magic ability, but his love for the cosmos. His mutual understanding with the heavens of their meanings and messages. They seemed to speak, he and they, a language none other was fluent in. The stars offered him refuge and unending comfort.

“What are you doing out here?” A pair of arms went around his middle and Miraak blinked his dry eyes. The night sky was dark, barren. Devoid of life. Not even a cloud.  
“Looking at the stars.” He replied simply, his voice strained. He felt Tharya tuck her head between his shoulder blades. A big blue orb of angry light beamed down at them. If the Dragon Break prevailed much longer, Mnemoli’s luminance would rival the sun. And Mnemoli was the one star he did not seem to get along with.  
“There are no stars left.” She whispered into his shirt. Miraak sighed lowly. He was all too aware of that fact.

“They will come back.” He promised, looking up at the sky one last time. “They have to.”

_Stars,_

_in your multitudes,_

_scarce to be counted_

_filling the darkness..._


	22. Trapped (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i actually wrote this for both Skyrim & DA so maybe i’ll come back & post the DA one later on

“I wish I had half your strength, my love.” He squeezed her hands. “What has made you so upset? What brought you to these dark thoughts?” Miraak watched as she tried and failed to offer up a reply, wiping her cheeks with their knuckles, and her shoulders tightened before they slumped. Tharya inhaled slowly once but it broke off into pieces, hitched, interrupted breaths that made his heart ache. Miraak peered up at her, finally letting go of her shaking hands in favor of cupping her cheeks, guiding her watery gaze to him. “What has made you fear your emotion so much, little one?” He whispered. “You, who are so fearless in all that you do. So passionate. You have nothing to fear from the world,” slowly, his features fell and darkened with realization. “You only fear yourself. Your heart.”

The Dragon Priest sighed, crooking a finger and gently wiping at her hot tears. Her pale fingers latched around his wrists as if they were the iron bars of her cage.  
“There is nothing for you to fear inside, my love.” He murmured, briefly touching her heart. “You shine with the brilliance and wisdom of a thousand moons. There is nothing for you to fear.”

Without a word he stood from his crouched position and perched on the edge of the bed beside her, wrapping her safely in his arms.  
“What the moon does not see, the sun will always illuminate, my love. And nothing will be left to the darkness.”


	23. Song (Dragon Age)

Her voice felt as if it was reaching down into his throat and tightening its fingers around his heart and yanking, yanking, wenching it upwards, forcing it up and out of his lips. Sebastian didn’t dare look at the five holes in the ground. The rectangular, six foot deep chasms that had taken at least a day to dig through the tough cold Starkhaven dirt, still firm from winter. He did not look at the beautiful mahogany coffins that winked at him in the early afternoon sun.

_[None but the lonely heart](https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=SCtW1RucS-w)_  
_Can know my sadness_  
_ Alone and parted,_  
_ Far from joy and gladness_

Her lovely, operatic contralto he had once found such comfort in, such luxurious comfort in her rich sound, was now foreign. Cold, almost. Part of him wished he had not asked her to sing for his family’s funeral because part of him missed her beautiful voice, and part of him did not want to associate it with such death and dismal affairs. He knew once he heard her sing he would never want to leave Starkhaven again, but Elthina would not let him stay.

_Heaven’s boundless arch I see_  
_Spread out above me_  
_ O what a distance dear to one_  
_ Who loves me_

He watched her chest as she sang, her throat, the cold air steaming from her lips. It was the only way he was certain she was alive, that her voice was not an illusion. He watched the swell of her breasts against her dress when she inhaled and the tremble of her lips. She was alive. She was cold, and sad, but alive. Just like him. Sebastian was the last person standing at the graves; the rest of the funeral goers had returned to the palace to mourn in the comfort of the drawing rooms. The graves would be open to the public for tomorrow and the next day but then his family would be buried, and gone for all eternity.

_None but the lonely heart_  
_Can know my sadness_  
_ Alone and parted,_  
_ Far from joy and gladness_

He found himself alone in what had been his father’s war room. A large table in the center where Malcolm Vael and his advisors and generals would have stood. The fire burned bright and hot in the war room, and in here there was no one to stare at him as if he were a lost puppy. Most people did not remember him, and others did not dare to approach him. In here Elthina would leave him alone. In here, he could mourn as he was meant to.

_My senses fail_  
_A burning fire_  
_ Devours me_

She came in, quiet as breeze, and locked the door behind her. Her dress was silky and black, with lace sleeves and a neckline that sat around her shoulders, showing off her collarbones and the top of her chest, her elegant neck. Without a word Azriel sat on the floor before the fire, dress pooling around her. She put her arm on his leg and rested her cheek against his knee. He examined her slowly and lovingly; it had been so long, so painfully long since he’d seen her. Her tan skin, her braided hair. Her striking lavender eyes.

_None but the lonely heart  
Can know my sadness_

Sebastian Vael closed his eyes and let his head fall back against the chair. He was home, and he did not ever want to leave again.


	24. Succubus (Skyrim/mild NSFW)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> written in a noir AU, although it isn’t really specified!

“What do you have for me?”

She would look good bent over his desk, he thought. With her smug grin wiped away, lips instead parted for his tongue, his name. She would look good with her dress pushed up and her pale legs wrapped around him—she wasn’t slim in figure but she was pale, and though her dress did nothing to provoke these thoughts they entered him anyway. He felt a twitch in his neck when he imagined the soft flesh of her inner thighs pressed to his ears. When he reached up to itch the curve of his jaw he traced a finger over the soft skin—hers.

“Information,” she was saying, “I know about your killer. I connected the dots.”  
Dots. Bite marks. A trail of sucking and kissing, well out of view so that only he knew why she put a hand to tenderly rub her stomach. Her pale skin would purple easily. And he’d love to feel that strong body writhe below him, only to relax and pant and sigh when he eased his punishing actions with the softest, smoothest kisses.  
“Have you, now?” He chortled skeptically.

She frowned. Good. She didn’t like being doubted—maybe she was the same way in bed. But no—she hesitated, chewed the inside of her cheek. Part of him wanted to laugh. She would melt into the sheets with the slightest praise. All he would have to do is tell her how good she was for him, how tight, how delicious and she would be undone around his little finger; oh, he did like the sound of that.  
“If you’re not interested.”

Suddenly his belt was tight. He was glad for the table’s height. He glanced around the bar, calming his fiery blood, reaching for the whiskey. Taking a cool sip. He could feel it sliding down his throat and watched her take a short gulp. She had a gag reflex.

Shame.  
“Very well.” He said. “Tell me what you know.”


	25. Family (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one i wrote for both 🤷🏻♀️

Miraak did not remember his family. He did not remember his parents, or if he had any siblings. Gods, he did not even remember his own birthday. Vahlok and Morokei were his earliest memories of family, being trained, living together in Bromjunaar, before all three of them were carted off to Solstheim. The Solstheim Priests had quickly become his family then, no matter how annoying Zahkriisos was, or how laid-back Dukaan was. No matter how much Ahzidal insulted him, the Priests were his brothers.

And then he betrayed their oppressors, and by extent betrayed his brothers, and they no longer were his family. He did not have family. He had Hermaeus Mora, and pain, and discomfort in his own skin. He had scars, and memories, and a broken heart.

But then Tharya had come. Some part of him prayed for her to be family, but when he heard her song, the sweet singing of her inner dragon, it was different from his own. They did not share blood. She was a different kind of Dragonborn—not like Alessia, not his sibling. Her song was more delicate than his but no less draconic; it was more organized, more harmonic. And even though she was not family, she accepted him, helped him, rebuilt him piece by piece after rescuing him from Apocrypha. She became family, at first like a child who knew his most distant aunts and uncles who lived very far away. And then like a cousin one sees a few times a year but each time you look forward to it. And then she became a stranger again, as he saw her in a new light, a much more intimate and much less related light. She became an infatuation and then a timid lover and then a partner. Not once did he doubt himself because she was not Dragonborn as he was; they were not the same. Alessia was his sibling, and Talos was hers.

Once Tharya was cemented in his heart he had to open the door a little wider to accommodate the rest of her family. And there was many of them. Two brothers, two sisters, two parents, a plethora of aunts and uncles and cousins, countless nieces and nephews, and even some grandparents. He felt extremely closed in by the Dawn-Shields. (That was the name of their main family, in Solitude, and he was quick to learn that Tharya’s clan was the next closest to the title of direct descendant.) There seemed to be a million Dawn-Shields, and each of them wanted to know his name and life and parents and occupation and medical history. They wanted to know about his grand exploits around their treasured daughter, niece, cousin, granddaughter—she had a reputation.

Jorstus’s stoic mannerisms and unstoppable honesty he found very agreeable; they talked at length about many things. He shared Tharya’s interest in the past, though admitted he did not know much of it. Lofrek was most like the Last Dragonborn, and, being her twin, Miraak did not find this surprising. Green-grey eyes were always smiling devilishly, there was always some terribly mischievous plan being concocted in his head. Freana had taken the longest to warm up to him. She was the hard-working farmer of the family, owning land outside the Whiterun walls on the western side, opposite Tharya in the east. She appreciated strength and physical fitness more than her siblings treasured magic and myth and history. He believed he gained her respect by singlehandedly taming a wild red horse. Lilika was not hard to win over and not hard to love; she wrote songs about him and her sister, she helped him better his penmanship (his Atmoran was flawless in writing, but he very rarely wrote in Common, the letters were too chunky), and gave him reading material. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he’d read every book in existence. And Tharya, well-

“You look lost in thought.”  
Miraak jerked in his chair and Fjurkin laughed, clapping a pale hand onto one of his shoulders. He had forced himself to grow accustomed to their multitudes of physical touch, although it proved strenuous at times. “Like a spooked horse. Something on your mind?”  
Tharya had Fjurkin’s eyes. Piercing and clear and inquisitive. The Dragon Priest straightened out and looked around the gathering, the Dawn-Shields from every corner of Skyrim gathered here on the grass where Tundra House had once stood.

“_Niid_—no.” Miraak said finally. “Nothing of import.” Fjurkin pat his shoulder before letting go and settling into the seat beside him, mead in hand.  
“Enjoying yourself?”  
He was, in some small way. He was not an admirer of massive gatherings but he knew they were in his future for decades to come. Having only been introduced to the family hours ago, most of them did not wander too close, but who few that did provided excellent conversation.  
“_Geh_.” He nodded once. “I am.”  
“Oh, good. I couldn’t tell.” Fjurkin laughed again, though not unkindly. The dark-haired Nord looked at him for a moment before nodding. “Welcome to the family, Miraak.”

He extended a pale hand. Miraak was still for a moment before accepting it, accidentally clasping his fingers around Fjurkin’s forearm. But when he attempted to slip away the other man didn’t let go.  
“Some Atmoran custom of yours?” He shook Miraak’s arm. “I like it.”

Slowly, the First Dragonborn smiled. He used to dread meeting Tharya’s family. What would they think of him? What would they say? He was less concerned of what they would think of their relationship—he had no intention of changing that—but worried about their opinions of him.

“Thank you.”  
He was not worried anymore.


	26. Soft (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ugh sorry these past few days haven't been very good you guys...i'm super busy & stressed with college and family stuff and life just isn't going super well...hopefully the next few days will come out better!

“Nothing feels the same. Fabric, metal...it all feels foreign to me.” He slid his soaked hands up her stomach to cup her breasts. “Except for you. You are familiar.” The Dragon Priest moved his hands upwards to press his thumbs into the junctions of her neck and shoulder. He watched her back arch outwards, her hands diving under the water to latch around his thighs. 

"You missed rubbing my shoulders?" 

"I missed  _ you _ ." He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the feeling of her skin beneath his fingertips. The way her muscles eased, the way her nails dug into his thigh when he pressed a bundle of taut nerves. "The Void was...bland. Lifeless." 

Tharya sighed quietly. 

"I meant to ask you about that." She rolled her shoulders before leaning back against his chest. The Atmoran wrapped his arms around her, groaning when she slid her fingers into his hair. "Coming back from the dead is...not a daily occurrence." 

"I am glad to be back." He murmured. "But nothing feels right. Sometimes I feel..." 

"Go on." She curled her fingers down over his knuckles. 

"Sometimes I do not feel...myself. Like this skin, this body is borrowed." He trailed his fingertips over her sides. "Sometimes I feel I do not belong here. Like something is calling me back to place very, very far away." Miraak shook his head. "I cannot describe it." 

"You came back from the dead," Tharya said gently, "I'd expect there would be some side affects." 

The First Dragonborn was quiet for a long time, sliding his hands over her wet skin, feeling her relax slowly, bit by bit against him. He hadn't thought he would be so glad to feel her body on his again. To know he was  alive , to know he was here. On top of the tower at Castle Volkihar, he wasn't sure if he had slipped completely from the grip of life. He had heard Tharya, and known she was there, felt her presence, but when he had disappeared from the road near Winterhold, he was certain. When he had resurfaced in the Void, in the cool grey river, he had known. He was dead. Gone from the waking world. He knew he had left Tharya behind. 

But here she was, nearly asleep in his arms as if nothing had ever happened. 

He bowed his head to kiss her scalp. 

"I love you." He whispered. She smiled sluggishly; he felt her cheek shift against his chest. 

"Back from the dead and he still loves me." Tharya chortled. "Isn't that something."


	27. Power (Star Trek!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW i haven't written anything for star trek in so long! i miss it!

“Divert all power to forward shields! How are we on life support, Saru?” 

“Life support is at forty-eight percent and holding, Captain.” The Kelpien responded. 

“Good.” Pike nodded, scanning the bridge. It blinked in and out of hellish red, a persistent reminder of their unknown attackers. “Aurora! How are we doing on those translations?” 

No reply. 

“Rora!” 

She jerked to life from her spot bent over the comms console, so still and serene amidst the bustle and chaos of the bridge. 

“I don’t know, Chris...” her voice was quiet but he heard her loud and clear. She took a hesitant step forward. He examined her body language for a moment before motioning her over. 

“You want to tell me something.” 

“Listen to this for me.” She stuck something to his temple and shoved a PADD into his waiting hands. 

“It sounds like static.” He made a face. “White noise?” 

“I tried looking for a pattern, for anything. I put it through every database, looked up any language that had even a half percent of a match. Nothing.” 

“Alright, alright.” He tried to sound soothing but his voice was still firm with the authority of what he called Bridge Crisis Pike. “That’s alright, if we can’t speak with them we’ll just have to-“ 

The bridge went dark. The Discovery lurched violently and sent them both sprawling from the chair towards Owosekun’s console. Pike grunted as he smacked the chair, a mouthful of white hair somehow ending up in his mouth. 

“Christopher—you’re alright?” 

“Ugh.” He rubbed his head. “I’m fine.” Together they sat up, arms wound around one another. Blinking into the darkness, Aurora craned forward. 

“Those are Federation ships,” she mumbled. Pike squinted at the view screen, almost blindingly bright against the darkness. 

“Well. We’re really up shit creek now.”


	28. Ruins (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, i have no idea why "ruins" made me think of miraak's mask either, but here we are.

His mask had collected dust. 

He did not believe it when he fished it out of the chest at the foot of Tharya's--and his, he supposed, but even eight months out of Apocrypha he was still unused to having things of his own--bed. A pale cloud of fine grime had come off it with one swipe of his hand, but some of it...stuck to the mask, coating it in a thin layer of grey fuzz. Stray "dust bunnies" (he didn't understand the name at all, but that's what Tharya had called them) clung to the tentacles hanging downwards and the ones pulled back. The eye slits had gathered wisps of soot and whatever else that was stubborn to move when he blew on it. His mask had collected dust; he had not worn it in nearly eight months. For eight months he had shown his bare, scarred face to the world without a second thought. He had put his hood up regularly to cast a long shadow over his features, but his mask was more final, more intimidating than a hood. A hood was something Tharya could pluck off his head and expose him like a newborn to the world. A mask she could not. A mask... his mask had become his face for thousands of years...part of him wondered where he had gathered the strength to live without it. 

His mask had collected dust.


	29. Daylight (Skyrim)

Immediately after Apocrypha, he did not remember seeing the sun. He remembered the inside of Tel Mithryn, the Telvanni’s tower, and being very numb. When Tharya finally deemed it best to leave Solstheim, the sky was a simple and plain grey from east to west. An ashy grey. Vaguely he wondered if the sun had ever shone on this little island since the Red Mountain erupted. 

On the ship back to Skyrim, he stayed in the cabin. Tharya had granted him the bunk and she herself slept not far away—the cabin was uncomfortably small and low—in a bed roll. The numbness had gone away and was replaced by throbbing pain  everywhere.  He could barely walk or talk, so he didn’t. He felt himself drift into and out of unconsciousness at all hours of the day. Sometimes he woke up to Tharya’s fingers checking his pulse, her worried face hovering above him. Once or twice she put her hand to his forehead to check for a fever but he moved away and gave her a ferocious glare. 

When they got to Windhelm, he was on death’s door all over again. He spent a week as a living corpse on the floor of the Argonian Assemblage. Then he had to let her touch him, because he was incapable of doing anything himself. It was pitiful, pathetic; he hated it. But some cowardly shred of him wanted to live, even though he didn’t deserve it. Some cowardly shred of him was clinging to survival, instead of accepting his death with the honor he should’ve. 

He also hated to admit that the Last Dragonborn, the Pretender, had now saved his life twice. Once from Hermaeus Mora, and once from the Daedric infection that ravaged his body, turned his veins black, made his heart stop at random intervals. She did not sleep. Every hour she checked his pulse and held a knife below his nose to see if he was breathing. If he wasn’t, she’d ram her palms into his chest until he did. She looked almost as bad as he did after a week of constantly checking, reviving, and healing him. She did not eat, or at least he never saw her eating. She barely left the Assemblage, or his side. 

But after a week of battling the infection she defeated it, and he finished it off. A few more days after that he could speak again, and he could eat, and his heart didn’t fail on a whim. He could walk. And once he could do all these things with his regular ease, Tharya burned the blankets and furs he had spent the week in and they packed up and left the Assemblage. That cowardly, soft-minded part of him considered asking her to get some rest. It had been nearly two weeks; there was no way she could be fit to travel. But another senile and arrogant part of him laughed and said it was her own fault, and he should not feel sorry. 

So he didn’t. 

They stepped out of the Assemblage and he nearly went blind. The sun was pounding, assaulting, making his head spin. He remembered lifting a gloved hand to shield his eyes, taking a step away from the light like a nocturnal beast. Tharya asked if he needed to sit and he ignored her. He had never feared the sun before, he wouldn’t now. So he closed his eyes and put his arms down and stood there to absorb its light, its warmth. It felt  so good  on his skin. He didn’t remember what the sun felt like. He felt all the clamminess and filth that coated him from Apocrypha burn away, leaving only his raw skin beneath, only him. He felt reborn in fire. His entire body tingled hotly as he stood there. He felt new. 

When Miraak opened his eyes finally, Tharya was still there, staring at him with some kind of sympathetic fascination. The cowardly part of him grew louder. 

She had let him feel the sun again.


	30. Doom (Dragon Age)

Azriel felt the stone give way first; the way it trembled and shook beneath her feet caught her attention almost immediately. As a warrior she was always connected to the ground, always paying attention to her feet and the earth below her. So when the bridge began to tremble, she knew. Sebastian was still firing arrows one after another at the dragon as it flew away, so he didn't notice until the neatly cut rock began to split and crack and break off. Until the bridge itself began to collapse--until it was too late. Azriel watched Blackwall fall victim first to the breaking bridge, scrambling to hold on even as chunks of the structure continued to fall around him. Dorian scrambled to his aid and Varric went right after him. All three men were more or less thrown off the edge and sent sailing through the cold night air below. 

Sebastian crashed into her just as the surface below them shifted, threatening to finally give way. 

"Hold on!" They shouted at each other, gripping one another for dear life. The bridge was on such a tilt that it was impossible for them to not scuttle and scrape their way downwards. Below their feet the rocks popped away and before they knew it they were plunged headfirst into the night. 

"Azriel!" Sebastian shouted above the whistling wind, and the Inquisitor flailed until she grabbed him in midair. The Prince strapped his arms around her and turned so she was facing the distant ground. 

"I'm using the mark!" She fumbled to free her hands, locking her legs around him. "Hold on!" She repeated. Azriel opened her fist and felt every muscle in her arm go tight as she extended the Anchor towards the rift in the center of the courtyard. They were quickly approaching it...too quickly for comfort. Sebastian half-twisted to look... 

But they were swallowed by a bright green light, sent through a searing stage of warmth and then cold, and when they opened their eyes next, they were standing sideways on a rocky pillar, clutching at one another. The skies above them were green, the ground below green. Azriel opened her eyes. 

" Mo gradh ," Sebastian slowly looked around, glancing to the ground that was below where they were...standing on the pillar. "Where did you bring us?" Slowly he untangled his arms from her. 

"I think..." Azriel's eyes were wide. "I think we're in the Fade."


	31. ALL HALLOW'S EVE (Skyrim)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you everyone for reading my month of fictober! i have to admit this was probably the worst month for me to do a writing challenge, with school & college and everything. most of these prompt pieces are SUPER bad but some i'm proud of. but hey, we're done, and that's all that matters :)

“Miraak. Miraak! Wake up!” Someone was shaking him violently, grappling at his robes and hitting his chest.

“What—_what_, **what**?” He groaned, slapping at her hands and rolling over with his back to her. “It isn’t dawn yet.”

“Wake up! We’re leaving. Oh, fuck, I knew there was something wrong about this place.” Tharya moved away from him and he heard her blow the fire out with magic. The warmth at his feet vanished. The Atmoran groaned, turning in his bedroll and craning his head up to watch her bustle around.

“Go back to sleep.” He muttered, falling limp in his bedroll again. “You are being paranoid.”

“No, get up!” She kicked his feet. Miraak shot up.

“Tharya.” He leaned forward and caught her spear, pulling her back to him. “Go to sleep. You haven’t rested in days-“

“No, I’m telling you, we need to move.”

“_Ahtlahzey_, just go lay down,” he whined, dragging his hands over his face.

It took her nearly thirty minutes but at long last she did return. She sat beside his head and he threw one arm over her lap, squeezing her thigh. Something had her on edge. One of her dreams, maybe. Vaermina was relentless. Nearly an hour later she jerked again, grabbing his arm like a rabid animal.

“Miraak, seriously. Wake up.”

“No.”

“You bastard.” She hit his head. He grimaced. “Get up. Please.”

He pushed himself onto his elbows.

“_Ahtlahzey_, listen to me. There is nothing-“

A distant noise cut him off—the far-off, ghoulish sound of a whinnying horse. He was still for a moment.

“You left Knight in the cold?”

“That wasn’t Knight.” Tharya looked around the dark antechamber of Hamvir’s Rest. “He’s just outside, remember?”

Miraak sighed.

“It’s nothing.”

“Fine. Go outside and prove it.” Tharya crossed her arms. Miraak slipped out of his bedroll and shrugged on the outermost layer of his robes, not even bothering with the rest, or his boots. He made a show of opening the door, and glanced outside.

"See? Absolutely nothing." With a sarcastic gesture outside into the cold night he made to shut the door again--except the whinny returned, louder, closer. The faint sound of approaching hoofs hammering on the cobblestones reached their ears.

Tharya wrenched him inside and the door slammed shut, shoved by an unseen force that took the metal right from his hand.

"Gods dammit, we're screwed." She had already packed their bedrolls and was gathering their scattered supplies up from around the antechamber.

"What are you doing?" Miraak sighed. "You're being hysterical. This place is-"

"Haunted. So put your shoes on, big man, we're leaving." She hopped around on one foot and tugged her boots on. "This is Hamvir's Rest. I don't know why I didn't recognize it before," she shook her head, "the Headless Horseman is here. This is the end of his route."

Miraak stared at her before breaking into laughter.

"The Headless Horseman!" He leaned against the door, clutching at his stomach. "Oh, that is almost endearing of you, _ ahtlahzey_. The Headless Horseman."

"I'm glad you think it's funny. Get your shit and let's go." She shoved the pack into his arms and then poked her head out of the door. Miraak leaned over her shoulder.

"_Boo_."

The Last Dragonborn jerked forward, which made Knight raise his head from the ground. Obviously he'd been getting some much-needed rest as well.

"You bastard!" Tharya smacked Miraak's chest but he was too busy laughing again. "This is real. I've seen him before, and I know his route ends here."

"Would it be redundant to say I do not believe you?"

"Very." She dumped the rest of their supplies into his arms and then grabbed Knight's saddle off the ground. "Hey, handsome, I'm sorry to wake you up, but we gotta go." She cooed at the grey horse. The Dragon Priest pouted.

"You don't talk to me like that," he muttered.

"I have standards."

Once Knight was up and saddled Tharya threw their things in her saddlebags, and secured the backpack over her shoulders.

"We're leaving." She said, giving Miraak a pointed look to where he was leaning against the door, examining his nails.

"I still do not understand this...superstition." The Atmoran shook his head.

"Well, you're wearing a bathrobe, so your opinion doesn't really count."

"It is a robe," he gave her a quizzical look before glance down. The outermost layer of his violet robes was sleeveless and long...it did kind of look like a bathrobe. Tharya grabbed the reins and quickly the three of them began their journey down the beaten path between the collection of graves on each side.

And suddenly, riding off the road and turning the corner of the foothill into Hamvir's Rest, a blue spectre appeared.

"Oh shit." Tharya whispered, freezing in her tracks. The ghostly horse reared at the sight of them and descended into a trot, coming down the path. "Don't. Move." Even Knight seemed to sit still as a statue at her words. Miraak blinked rapidly--this wasn't the result of an overtired mind, was it? Hallucinations? The Headless Horseman approached slowly, sliding his sword out of its scabbard and holding it erect at his side. The clip-clop of hooves was unmistakable...when the beast got close it took a long whiff of the Dragonborns.

Miraak held his breath. Slowly, carefully, against all his better judgement, he hooked his pinky with Tharya's and gave it a squeeze.

The ghost was indeed headless, as the name implied, but Miraak couldn't shake the feeling he was being stared at. Examined. The torso leaned down just enough from the saddle to make it seem like he was going over the Priest with a scrutinizing eye. Abruptly the horse reared again, making him inhale sharply and shift back. Tharya locked her hand around his fingers.

_ "__Prieeeessssttt..._" the ghost hissed. The spectral sword lifted to ghost over his throat, hardly a touch at all, but just enough that it felt like a true blade pressed to his skin when he swallowed. It went up to trace the curve of his jaw and the flat rested against his cheek for a moment before it was whisked away, leaving the tiniest of slices in its wake. A single bead of blood rose the surface and slid down his skin. A strange tingling feeling enveloped his neck and head, as if...it had been sliced straight through and disconnected from his shoulders.

Without another word the Headless Horseman's mount gave a terrifying shriek that no other horse could replicate, and the spectre charged headlong towards the doors of Hamvir's Rest. At the very last moment he turned and the horse planted itself on its hind legs. Flash images of bloody battles and dismembered bodies crashed through their brains, and when they blinked the Headless Horseman vanished through the doors.

"So," Tharya whispered, just as frozen to the spot as he was, "still don't believe me?"


End file.
